


terms and conditions may apply

by ships_to_sail



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Coupons, Deepthroating, Dom Drop, Edging, Face-Fucking, Fluff and Smut, Gifts, Impact Play, M/M, Painplay, Porn with Feelings, Post-Season/Series 05, Praise Kink, Restraints, Rimming, Two Cocksluts in Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:55:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22913572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ships_to_sail/pseuds/ships_to_sail
Summary: There are five of them, and as David flips through them, his mouth goes dry. By the time he’s read the last one, all he hears is the blood rushing in his ears, his dick tenting the soft black fabric of his sweats. Patrick hasn’t moved, his forehead still pressed to the spot between David’s shoulder blades.“These are,” David clears his throat. “Interesting.”
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 56
Kudos: 302





	1. Merry Christmas, David Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Title thanks to the impeccable Didi, who is just a shining gem of a human!

Humans, in all their infinite variety, have a habit of boiling themselves and those they know down to a few key identifiers. It helps to put the world in order, to find a semblance of structure in the chaos, and it can very quickly become the chicken or the egg:

Does Patrick Brewer give such good gifts because he’s known for giving such good gifts, or did he become known for the doing? 

It’s a Gordian knot that David is looking forward to spending his whole life unravelling — just not now, when his belly is full of a deliciously homemade coffee, thanks to his new espresso machine, and the glow of Christmas lights is making everything look hazy. They’re sitting together on the sofa, Patrick downloading an entire slew of nonfiction books to his new e-reader, David twirling his biggest silver cuff around his middle finger, warm and cozy and half-asleep against Patrick's shoulder.

“Oh, I almost forgot — I’ve got one more gift for you,” Patrick says casually, his eyes still focused on the screen. “Top drawer of my desk.”

And it’s not just casual – it's too casual. David sits back into the couch for a second and studies Patrick’s profile. “And you just...forgot, until now?”

“Yep.”

“ _ My  _ boyfriend, king of conscientious gifts, forgot that he happens to have another one tucked away for me?”

“Yeah, you know what, it’s fine. You don’t need to open it.”

David rolls his eyes but practically jumps off the couch, rushing towards the desk and pulling open the top drawer so fast a handful of pens spill out the front. He’s wiggling his fingers like he’s ready to dig through the organized piles of paperwork Patrick keeps stashed there, but of course he doesn’t need to. HIs gift is laying right across the top, the heavy black cardstock standing out amongst the standard copy paper. 

He picks up the small stack carefully until he realizes they’re stapled together in the corner. They look like they’re supposed to be dollar bills, or Willy-Wonka style golden tickets, only stark black and silver ink. He can tell it’s Patrick’s handwriting, neat and stocky and evenly spaced, but there are little doodles in the corner that he’s never seen, and warmth wraps around his heart as he runs his thumb over the top one, a little cartoon Patrick kissing a little cartoon David on the cheek. 

He can’t stop looking at the little picture, so much so that he doesn’t hear Patrick sneak up behind him, and he starts a little as Patrick’s arms wrap around his waist, chin on his shoulder as he stands on his tippy-toes to look at the booklet.

“For Prince David,” David can barely get the words out without laughing. It’s an old joke, almost as old as their relationship, a tossed-off sarcasm that had come about when Patrick had gotten thoroughly, actually irritated with David for the first time. Of course, David had adored it far more than Patrick had intended, which both put an end to their fight and cemented it in the canon of ridiculous pet names Patrick sometimes used. “What is this?”

“Read them,” Patrick’s voice is low, his breath hot on the shell of David's ear. He kisses David on the back of his neck, just below his hairline, a graze of teeth that makes David’s cock twitch. He flips back the top piece of cardstock, folding it against the staple, his fingers dancing lightly over the iridescent gel pen Patrick used to write on top of the dark paper. There are five of them, and as David flips through them, his mouth goes dry. By the time he’s read the last one, all he hears is the blood rushing in his ears, his dick tenting the soft black fabric of his sweats. Patrick hasn’t moved, his forehead still pressed to the spot between David’s shoulder blades. 

“These are,” David clears his throat. “Interesting.”

“Hmm,” Patrick nods his head, the smallest fraction of a movement that David can feel in every nerve of his body. He feels weirdly exposed, all of a sudden, the by-product of reading the words his boyfriend had very meticulously printed, alongside adorable doodles and a tiny ‘one per customer, must be presented to be valid’ written in every corner. “They’re all yours, David. Use them whenever and wherever you’d like. Just — just leave one on the dresser when you’re ready to cash in.” He speaks to the floor, to the firm expanse of flesh that is David’s back. And because Patrick can’t see him, he lets himself smile as big as he’d like. 

“Is tonight too soon?”

Patrick laughs and finally lifts his head, his hands coming to David’s hips and spinning him forcefully, so that they’re face to face, chests almost touching. David let out a little yelp, his hands going to Patrick’s shoulders. He tries to ignore how just this smallest bit of manhandling had him wanting to press down on his dick, apply pressure so he didn’t come in his Alexander Wang sweats like a fucking middle schooler. That got a lot harder to do, though, when Patrick’s thumbs were rubbing little circles on his hip-bones and his eyes were glued to David’s mouth. 

“Never too soon, never too late. I did kind of think you could save them for later, though.”

He smiles up at David from underneath his eyelashes, a million pale filaments that do nothing to dull the power of the way he’s looking at David. Like he wants to swallow him whole and then ask for seconds.

“I never was very good at waiting,” he leans forward and licks into Patrick’s mouth, pressing into his space until the other man is forced to walk backwards. “But who am I to interrupt Christmas plans.”

Patrick’s hands are still on David’s hips, and he pulls David with him, the two of them moving in an awkward kind of march step as David devours Patrick’s mouth. When they hit the couch, neither of them is paying attention to the force, or the angle, and they go toppling over the back in a heap. Laughing, David pushes up on his elbows to keep his weight from landing fully on Patrick, who is trapped beneath him and the afghan and half a dozen pillows upended in the fall. Patrick’s laughing so hard he’s got tears streaming down his face, and he doubles over when David stands and offers him a hand. 

Instead of standing, Patrick pulls David down, back on top of him in a much more coordinated effort, until the length and weight of David covers him like a blanket. His laughter slows, and he slowly regains his breath as David watches, perched above him. “Are you okay,” David asks, his eyes raking over Patrick’s face. 

“Never better, David. Never better.” And he pulls them together in a hug strong enough to bruise, hard enough that David can still feel his arms there, locked tight around his ribcage, hours later, when his bones are liquid and Patrick finally follows through on all his frisky Christmas plans.

As he drifts off to sleep, he sees it there on the desk. The silver ink catches one of the twinkle lights from the tree and flashes at him like a beacon. David falls asleep with visions of sugarplums and safe words dancing in his head.

Merry Christmas, indeed. 


	2. So Close, So Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all my gratitude to storieswelove, a fantastic friend, beta, and emotional support human <3

It’s been an absolute shit week, and Patrick feels like it’s all his fault. He’d let himself get behind on paperwork, which meant that they’d accidentally missed a reorder window with a popular distributor and now they’d be a month out of stock on the rosewater and tea tree oil toner, one of their top-five best sellers. Add to that the fact that he’d accidentally tripped in the bedroom and spilled an entire mug of tea across David’s favorite Comme des Garcons sleep shirt, and the flat tire they’d gotten on the way into work that morning, and Patrick wanted to cash in the whole fucking week for a do-over. 

He was in a funk. He went to bed with it Friday and woke up with it Saturday, a heavy knot of tension and irritation that was sitting on his temples, making his head pound and his jaw clench. A shower didn’t help, and neither did a cup of coffee. He was so pissed, in fact, that he almost didn’t see it. In fact, he walked in and out of the bedroom most of the day and into the evening, right past the dresser, and didn’t see it sitting there until David very pointedly asked him to grab him his bracelet.

Because there it is, the cardstock black and heavy. There’s a little rip in one corner, where David had removed it from the staple, but otherwise it’s pristine. The silver ink glints in the lamplight of the bedroom, and now that he’s seen it, he doesn’t know how he missed it. 

**So Close, So Far: Bearer entitled to one (1) session, given or received, delayed orgasm**

He wrote the words, and yet they still send a chill down his spine. He’d debated giving these to David in the first place — they seemed so silly and almost awkward to write in the full light of day. But David had also more than taught him just how hot it can be to ask for exactly what you want. He picks up the square and folds it in half, slipping it into his back pocket without a word. He grabs David’s bracelet, as asked, and fastens it around his wrist with the easiest smile he’s worn all day.

*

“So, just one question,” Patrick is pressing kisses along David’s collarbone, up the side of his neck, onto the tops of his shoulders. Feather light brushes of lips against skin that are so soft they almost aren’t there, the memory of something that hasn’t happened yet.

“Mm,” David says, eyes closed and head back against the railings of Patrick’s headboard. 

“Just how many rounds do you think you can go tonight, slugger?” There’s laughter in his voice but a heat in his eyes when David lifts his head to meet his gaze. Patrick watches his brow wrinkle, looks for the appearance of his favorite little valley, deep and center right at the top of David’s nose, and when it appears he smooths his finger tip against it. David chews on the inside of his cheek, like he’s thinking through the best way to pin down the words flying through his brain. He’d once described it to Patrick like that scene in the first Harry Potter, the room with the broom and all the flying keys, only it’s David and his brain and the key are words and all the different things those words mean if you put them together in a different order. He clears his throat, his unconscious sign that he’s finally gotten close enough, and his voice is soft.

“Sports nicknames? Really?” Patrick shrugs, but doesn’t say anything. He’s waiting for David’s answer. David rolls his eyes and looks at his hands when he says, “three?” 

And Patrick’s not sure what he was expecting — they’ve gone for longer before, more cycles of Patrick, teasing David, pushing him to his limits before backing off, pushing him down to make him fly higher, but. Tonight, Patrick knows, it’s not about the number. There’s that heat, that low burning thing that was growing to be as familiar to Patrick as breathing. Something catches at Patrick’s throat, wraps long fingers around the hollow of his neck and squeeze just a bit, until Patrick’s face feels warm. He leans up and presses a long kiss to the bottom of David’s chin, sucking gently, alternating lips and teeth until David is wiggling beneath him and his breaths have shortened.

“Three it is. Standard rules, regular safeword?” He feels the muscles in David’s neck shift when he nods, and Patrick bites down on David, just a little. When he’d first met David, he hadn’t known how to do this, how to navigate around the limits and expanses that could come along with fucking someone. But David was a patient teacher, and Patrick was a quick study. “Can I ask you a question?” Patrick mutters the words into David's skin, unable to lift his lips away long enough to articulate.

“You just did,” David says, which earns him a particularly aggressive press of teeth, a slide along his jaw until Patrick is sucking gently on his earlobe. David whines and turns his head and Patrick chuckles, low. 

“Why this one? Why tonight?”

David goes still, and so does Patrick. He waits, the time stretching between them: key, words, meanings. David turns to meet his eyes and Patrick pulls back enough that David has the space to meet his eyes. “I just thought. Out of all my choices.” David clears his throat again. “This one seemed like it would work the best for both of us.”

There’s a hesitation that belies tenderness, a soft care that David takes for Patrick when he thinks no one is looking. Patrick knows that David is made of edges, razor thin and ragged and inescapable. He’s lost countless people in his life who don’t know how to touch him around all the sharp spots. But Patrick has always had a skill with David, an ability to thread his fingers through the razor wire and find, buried in the center, a soft and tender thing that loves intensely and purposefully and without end. 

Patrick’s breath shakes when he exhales, and he shakes his head. “You don’t have to — that’s  _ not  _ what these were supposed to be, David.”

“They’re my gift, right?” He raises an eyebrow at Patrick, who nods. “Then isn’t it kind of, like. Up to me what they are?”

“Yeah, but —” Patrick finds it hard to talk when David’s licking into his mouth, dipping down and pressing a finger beneath Patrick’s chin to bring their faces together. It’s a quick, almost violent movement, and it catches Patrick off-guard. He gasps, a noise that David swallows, and in the flash of the next second, Patrick closes his eyes and kisses David back. He breathes out of his head and into his body, shifting his weight until he’s kneeling over David, never breaking the kiss.

David’s hands wander over the back of Patrick’s thighs, down to the bend in his knees and back up to the curve of his ass, the firm pad of his fingertips brushing lightly over the thin fabric of Patrick’s pajama pants. Patrick’s hands land in David’s hair, brushing the longer strands out of their styled coiffure and into something closer to the curls Patrick so loves getting to see him in. He weaves the strands in between his fingers, dragging nails along David’s scalp until he’s practically purring underneath him.

Patrick smiles as he shifts his weight, pushing with enough force that he can feel David’s teeth, the bones of his jaw, as he forces him back against the pile of pillows. At the same time, he swings a leg over David’s lap and sits back, pressing the swell of his ass into David’s half-hard cock. His hands fall to David’s shoulders and he begins to knead, searching for the lingering knots of the day and taking time to press them out, his fingers moving in small circles outward along David’s upper back. At one point, David breaks the kiss to moan in pain, and Patrick stops on that spot and presses firmly until he can feel the muscles unclench. He feels a little spark of fire deep in his belly as David sighs. It’s the same feeling that he gets every time he knows that he’s done the thing he enjoys doing most in the world — making David Rose happy. 

Patrick wraps his and around David’s neck and into the short hair at the base of his neck. He pulls gently, tilting David’s head to the side and pressing his lips to the line of David’s jaw, sucking gently over his pulse point, dragging his teeth until they meet in the slightest squeeze of skin. He repeats the action, a slow alternating between pulsing pressure and the slow scrape of teeth until David whimpers and when Patrick pulls off, he sees the start of a beautiful hickey.

“You are getting  _ very  _ good at that,” David says, his breath barely a whisper.

“Practice,” Patrick says confidently, maybe even a little smugly, and he doesn’t miss the way David’s dick twitches against his ass. He sits back slightly and pulls David to him, his hands trailing from the thick column of David’s neck along the line of David’s arms to his wrists, which he lifts gently, raising David’s arms up over his head. His hands drift underneath David’s t-shirt, his fingertips barely cresting the hemline, his fingers dusting over the coarse hair that lines David’s stomach from bellybutton to balls, up over his chest. A vision of Patrick coming all over the dark strands, watching the alternating flashes of dark brown and pearly white as he milks his cock over David’s chest, flash in front of his eyes and he has to press his forehead to David’s to keep from swaying. 

But that’s not what they’re doing tonight, so as much as it pains Patrick, he pushes the image from his mind and focuses. He pushes David’s t-shirt up and over his head, smiling at the reveal of skin as the t-shirt clears his abs, his chest, the top of his shoulders. Patrick tosses the shirt onto the floor behind him, ignoring the injured little noise that David makes. Patrick uses his broad hands to grab both of David’s wrists in a twisting, almost painful grip, as he presses them into the wall above David’s head. Patrick’s mouth finds David’s chest, covering a nipple with a warm press of tongue, flat and wide as it drags across the dark brown skin. David hisses and his head falls against the pillow of his raised arms. Patrick does it again, and again, rolling David’s nipple between his lips, and his teeth, and across his tongue until it’s pert in his mouth and David is panting beneath him. Just as David is starting to shift uncomfortably, Patrick switches the grip of his hands and moves his mouth to the other nipple, which gets a low groan from David and a wicked chuckle from Patrick.

“How you doing, champ?”

“You know how I feel about sports talk,” David manages to get out, even as Patrick sucks David into his mouth with a firm pressure.

“Yeah, you fucking love it,” Patrick growls, and David laughs, a bright sound that’s cut off with a gasp when Patrick bites down firmly on David’s nipple. Patrick can feel David grow long and hard against the cleft of his ass at the unexpected roughness, and if he’s going to bring David as close to the brink as he wants to tonight, it means he has to start now. “You know, I was thinking,” he asks innocently, rolling his hips against David.

“Uh-oh.”

“About how you thought this would work for both of us? And I think you were right.” Patrick presses a tender kiss below each eye, keeping the slow, rolling motion of his hips steady.

“I know,” and even with Patrick grinding on top of him, there’s a confidence that borders on arrogance in the way David says it. It makes Patrick’s stomach swoop, and his dick throb.

Patrick switches back to the first nipple at the same time that his fingers find the one he just left, squeezing it quickly. David grunts, but Patrick feels his hips lift, searching for friction. “And I think I know why. I’ve been such an asshole this week, and I’m sorry. I just. Things haven’t been going right.” He’s talking more than he probably should be at this moment, his hands having taken over for his mouth, but the longer he plays and the more he talks, the sweeter it will be when he does, well. “And I just need to relax.” David’s body goes completely still beneath him, like Patrick has said some kind of magic word. David knows what's coming, because of course he does, but that doesn’t make it any easier for either of them when Patrick pulls himself off of David’s body, peeling away like he’s the back of a sticker. “I think I’m gonna play a bit. You know — keep relaxing.” The words feel awkward in his mouth, but they have the desire effect. 

David whines, practically flouncing his body on the bed. He misses Patrick’s weight, and warmth, and hands, and Patrick knows this because he misses David in all the same ways. Patrick stands up, walking to the chair across from the end of the bed, and grabbing his guitar out of the stand. It’s tuned enough from his messing around with it the other night, and he plucks out a few cheery major chords, the bright notes filling the space between them with an energy so different to the lust radiating off of both of them, it sends a bubble of laughter floating through Patrick’s chest. “You know the deal, David,” he says. “Calm down, and let me know when you’re ready.” 

He can hear David breathing, long slow breaths as he stares at Patrick, a little scowl on his face. “I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

“I hate this.”

“You  _ don’t _ . And if you did, you could stop it. Do you want to stop it, David?” Patrick fingers picks the chorus to some Top 40 hit he couldn’t name if pressed, and refuses to look at the way David presses his lips into a thin, stubborn line. 

“Fine,” he huffs, turning his face back to the ceiling, his eyes closing gently. Patrick’s on his third round of scales when David sing-songs an, “Oh Patrick!” in his brattiest voice.

“Yes, dear?”

“I’m ready.”

“For what?”

David squawks and Patrick almost misses getting the guitar back in it’s stand, he’s laughing so hard. But he makes his way to the edge of the bed and stares down at David, his laughter evaporating as David meets his gaze. His pupils are blown and his hair is a mess, thin layer of sweat and saliva on his chest. David licks his lips and Patrick watches the slow movement of his tongue, a cold chill racing along the line of his spine. David, knowing he’s being watched, blushes beautifully, a deep rose that befits his surname spreading along his collarbone, up his throat, across the bridge of his nose. Patrick places his knees just on the edge of the bed and bends forward, hooking both index fingers under the waistband of David’s designer-someone pajama pants, bringing his dark grey briefs down with them. Patrick stands and takes the time to separate the two, folding each one with tender hands, his eyes never leaving David’s. 

David’s cock is leaking precome, and Patrick nudges David’s legs apart with his knees more roughly than he’d originally planned. He lowers himself onto the bed, his torso pressing into the mattress as his elbows bracket David’s hips and he presses cheek against the long, hard line of David’s cock. He can smell David, dark musk and tang, and he takes a deep breath, nuzzling his nose into the batch of curls at David’s base. For a moment Patrick wants more than anything to suspend time so he can stay here, just like this, surrounded by David’s heat and smell and skin. But the seconds tick by, and David’s movements, however small, are becoming more and more impatient.

Patrick licks a long, slow line up the underside of David’s cock, the broad flat expanse of his tongue pressing into the pronounced vein that runs the length of his partner. He swirls his tongue around the head and moans loudly as the salty taste of David explodes across the back of his tongue. The vibrations echo down David’s dick, and David makes a similar sound deep in his chest, an unlocking of something that only Patrick has the key to.

Patrick continues to lick slow lines up and down David, like he’s a goddamn lollipop, until his dick is glistening, deep red and swollen. Patrick slips a hand up and gently tugs on David’s balls as he slips the head of his cock between his lips, sucking gently, running his tongue over the slit and pressing as David keens and begins to shake. 

“Fuck, your mouth is a treasure,” David mutters, his voice ragged, like it’s being pulled from his throat. Patrick hollows his cheeks in response, pulling David into his throat one agonizing inch at a time. The sound that comes out of David is deep and animalistic, full of need, and Patrick can feel the muscles in David’s thighs tense underneath him. He’s getting closer, which means that, as much as it feels like a stab to Patrick’s gut, means it’s time to stop. Again.

He pulls of David with a filthy pop and pushes himself to standing, glad the chair is as close to the bed as it is, because there isn’t any blood in his head and he’s feeling woozy with more than just desire for David. He crashes into the chair and takes a deep, shaking breath. 

“Do you know how hard that is to do, David,” he whines, surprised at how intensely the words punch out of his mouth, like he’s speaking with his whole chest. He reaches out blindly for the guitar, his hands unsteady as he tries to make his fingers listen to his brain. He forms a few random notes, plucking them out, and then manages to form a chord he thinks might even be a real one.

David is lying on the bed, his chest heaving and his eyes wrenched shut. “Do not say the word ‘hard’ to me right now,” he hisses, his words clipped through his clenched jaw. He’s got his hands squeezed into fists and Patrick traces the muscles in his forearm with his eyes. Patrick tries to remember the chord progression to “Songbird” because it’s the least sexy song he can think of, and he’s all the way through the first two verses and the chorus when David says his name again. 

This time, Patrick takes his time, standing up slowly and taking padding, shuffling steps back to the bed. He reaches out and pats David’s ankle. “You good, slugger?”

“Mmhmm.” David doesn’t look at him, just breathes through his nose and keeps his eyes shut tight. He’s still half-way hard, but Patrick isn’t in the mood to be a stickler.

“One more round, beautiful,” Patrick says quietly, and David whimpers, a tiny nod as tears pour out of the corners of his eyes. “Look at me, David.” He uses the tone that David can never say no to, firm but compassionate, and David flutters his eyes open slowly. “Check in.”

“I’m — I’m good,” David’s voice is strangled, hoarse, but he sounds calm and there’s a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You are just very,  _ very _ good at this.”

“Again, the power of dedicated practice,” Patrick stretches onto his tiptoes, his palms next to David’s hips as David leans forward to kiss Patrick, their tongues tangling in a comforting mix of reassurance and lazy lust. Patrick pulls away and walks his hands backwards, pushing himself to standing, a little thrill in his chest when he sees that David’s hard again already.

He sinks to his knees and wraps his hands around David’s calves, right at the back of his knees, and pulls, hard enough to move David down where he needs him. In the next swift motion, he’s spun his hands so that his palms press into David’s shins, pushing his legs back and his knees wide until David’s on display for Patrick, firm dick pressing against his belly as his asshole clenches around air, desperate already for something to fill it. Patrick goes a little weak in the knees, or would if he weren’t kneeling already, and he’s almost as tired of waiting as David is. He leans forward and wraps his mouth over the right ring of muscle, pressing the flat of his tongue against David’s entrance and sucking gently.

David moans and wiggles his hips a little further down the bed, his own hands landing on top of Patrick’s as he pushes himself forward and onto Patrick’s tongue. Patrick draws slowly, lazy circles around his hole, brushing the tip of his tongue across the puckered skin, sucking in a slow and steady pressure as he teases David, knowing how badly David wants to feel stretched, expanded,  _ filled.  _ The second time David presses himself insistently against Patrick’s mouth, Patrick lifts his head and mumbles:

“If you do that again I’m gonna stop and wait until you’re  _ fully  _ soft before I start again, got it?”

“You’re a masochist,” is all David says, after a beat, and Patrick smiles wickedly into his inner thigh. 

“I don’t remember there being a coupon for that,” he says, nipping gently at the soft, unmarked expanse of skin. 

“Patrick,  _ please.”  _ And for the most gorgeous person Patrick’s ever seen, there are few things David does as beautifully as beg. 

Patrick returns to the pattern of licking and sucking, only this time, after the swipe of tongue, he presses against the clench of muscle, working his tongue in and out firmly until he feels David start to relax and open beneath him. He feel it in his bones, the release and trust and surrender, and it’s addicting. Something inside Patrick loosens, some knot of tension he’s been tying and retying all week until the fibers are matted together and he doesn’t know where to start anymore. 

This is what David had meant when he said this, tonight, would be best for both of them, and it burns in Patrick’s chest, the power of the subtle love David has for him. Patrick pulls his mouth off David just enough to drench his middle finger in saliva before slipping it in up to the first knuckle, alongside his tongue. David hisses and stretches around him. Patrick continues to lick into David, to press his lips against his hole and work him open, while his finger slides in to the second knuckle. When his finger is fully seated inside David, Patrick stills his mouth and crooks his finger, only once, finding the smooth mass of David’s prostate and brushing it lightly. 

Daivd groans, a brittle nose that shifts into something higher when Patrick does it again. A third time, and David’s hips are bucking off the bed. Patrick’s fingers may not be the longest, but they’re broad and guitar-calloused and capable of getting damn near any job done. Patrick stops stroking his finger as he goes back to sucking at David’s hole again. And even though the seal isn’t as good with Patrick’s finger still inside him, Patrick hears David’s breath start to stutter. Patrick pulls off and grunts a single word: “Lube.”

David moves above him, his long arms coming in handy as he shifts his upper body and practically knocks the lamp over in his haste to get the bedside drawer open. A bottle lands near the top of Patrick’s head, two-thirds full and smelling deliciously of cinnamon and clove — the warming organic lube they started carrying after singles week. Patrick pops the cap, the plasticy echo matching the catch in David’s breath as Patrick lets a slow, thin line of lube fall onto his hand, over David’s ass and balls, up the line of his cock. Patrick slides his middle finger out slowly and catches some of the lube, using it to circle the pad of his finger lightly around David’s asshole as it clenches at air. Slowly, he begins to fuck David open with a single finger, adding a turn of his wrist when he bottoms out, tracing around David’s rim on the pullout.

“Fuck, Patrick. I need, I can’t — please, god, just,” David is rambling, his voice broken and raw, and Patrick just smiles and adds a second finger, slowly, alongside the first. For the first time all week, Patrick is finally feeling in control of something in his life again, and the low burn of power that it sends through his solar plexus urges him forward, adding a third finger alongside the first two. He begins to fuck David in earnest, scissoring his fingers, catching the tip of his middle finger on the rim of muscle with a gently tug. David’s hole is pink, and stretched, and dripping a mix of spit and lube that Patrick can’t pull his eyes away from. The only sounds in the room are the slick sounds of fucking and the low chorus of “fucks” and “oh gods” providing a soundtrack to the evening. 

“Gonna, I’m gonna come, I’m so close, it’s, I need,” David has an arm thrown over his face, his hand clenched into a fist as he buries his eyes in the crook of his elbow. And Patrick Brewer has never made a habit out of hating himself, but he’s the closest he’s ever been at that moment, when he pulls himself out of David’s heat and warmth and safety like he’s been electrocuted. But this is what Patrick promised to do, and even as David keens so loudly Patrick’s afraid he might actually be hurt, he’s also not saying the one word that would bring Patrick back to him, would end all of this right away. So Patrick doesn’t have it in him to go to the chair, but he does take several steps away from the bed and curl his toes in the floorboard in an effort to keep himself anchored and away from David.

“God  _ motherfucking  _ damn it!” David shouts from the bed, slamming a fist into the mattress. His dick bounces against his lower belly, leaving a thin smear of come just below David’s bellybutton, and Patrick’s focus centers on it like a laser beam. He watches it, that small patch of damp hair, and counts backwards in his head from 100. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, and he knows if he doesn’t get himself inside David soon, he’s going to come in his pants like a schoolkid. But he also wants to do what he promised, to do right by David, so he sits. And he watches. And he waits. And it’s the longest stretch of time yet before there’s a deep, heavy sigh and a whimper, and David doesn’t have to say a word this time. 

When he stands, Patrick kicks off his pajama bottoms and takes his aching dick in hand. He walks towards David slowly, his hand coming to rest on the outside of David’s knee. “You are gorgeous, you know that? I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my entire life, David, than you right now. Laid out and ruined and waiting. You’re so, so good. You did so good tonight, thank you David. Thank you for doing this for us. For me.” David’s chest is shaking, and a small sob escapes his lips. Patrick squeezes his knee gently. “You ready?” David nods, once, a sharp, sure movement of his head. Patrick drops his voice to a whisper. “Pass me a pillow.”

David does, and Patrick slides it under his hips, lining himself up with David’s entrance as he grabs the bottle of lube off the bed and slicks himself up with a few slow strokes. With a groan, he pushes slowly into David, who, even prepped, stretches deliciously around Patrick. He’s tight, and wet, and so, so hot, that Patrick has to stop and press his lips between his teeth to keep from coming right here, right now, barely inside the man he loves. He takes a slow breath and presses forward, a centimeter at a time, until he’s fully seated inside David, his balls resting against David’s taint and his hands looped under David’s knees, pushing them back until some of his weight is draped over David. 

He watches the other man's face as he begins to move, small, slow thrusts in and out, the muscles around David’s jaw clenched tight, his eyes shut and his face flushed. His lips are open, the smallest flash of pink tongue visible in his mouth, and it’s that tiny flash of color that tips Patrick over the edge. He snaps his hips, once, and David almost screams, muffling the sound at the last minute by biting down on the edge of his lip. Patrick can see the little crescent of white that David’s teeth leave, and it pokes at something visceral inside him, something that sees David and growls “ _ mine” _ . 

Patrick let's go and fucks David, hard, pounding into him with a rhythm that’s steady and relentless. David arches beneath him, shifting to meet Patrick’s rhythm, and when Patrick manages to hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears, it’s David, chanting his name like a prayer. And Patrick feels like he’s been waiting his entire life to be here, in this moment, fucking into David, a miracle of concetrated joy after a long and shitty week, and he knows that he doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve the beautiful, patient, vivacious man laid out in front of him for the taking. But he also knows, in his deepest heart, that he has to, or David wouldn’t be here. None of this would be here. So he fucks David because David earned it, because David deserves it, because he loves David, and David loves him back. 

“Holy shit, holy  _ shit,  _ Patrick,” David comes on Patrick’s name, stretching out the last syllable as hot strips of come paint his belly, and Patrick’s struck with such a strong sense of dejavu that the whole word seems to tilt to for a second before righting itself again. Patrick pulls a hand off of David’s shin and spreads it acros David’s lower belly, dragging his fingers through the still-warm come, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking down the taste of David while David watches, his eyes wide and his brow drenched in sweat. 

Patrick thrusts twice more before he comes, too, fucking through his orgasm, the twitches of his dick inside David’s body a delicious sensation as he rides out the aftershocks. He finishes coming and it’s like every cell in his body collapses at the same time — he just manages to land to the side of David on the bed, his body heavy and satiated. He throws an arm over David’s stomach, fucked out enough that he doesn’t even mind the cold, slightly tacky feeling of David’s come, already drying on his lower belly. 

David’s hand lands in Patrick’s hair, nestling into his curls and patting once, twice, his hand landing heavy, a reassuring weight on Patrick’s head. He feels like his body is floating apart at the joints, and the weight feels grounding. He rolls on his side and snuggles into David, who wraps his other arm around Patrick’s hip, rolling onto his side until they’re laying side by side, arms draped over each other, breathing warm breaths into the small space between them.

“So,” Patrick whispers, his eyes still closed, small smile on his lips.

“So,” David whispers back, pressing a small kiss to the tip of Patrick’s nose. Patrick hums, a content little noise in the back of his throat. Sleep pulls at all his softened edges, and he can feel David’s breath start to lengthen out. They should get water, and clean up, maybe change the sheets or at least move away from the damp spots on the bed. But instead, they slip into sleep, wrapped up in each other, one breathing in as the other breathes out, marking time as they slip into oblivion. 


	3. soft breaths, beating hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes, after your write a Whole Bunch of Feelings, you gotta follow it up with a Good Ole' Fashioned Face Fucking. 
> 
> As always, kids, do your research (this fic ain't it), talk to you partners, drink your water and defund the police! 
> 
> All my love to [ yourbuttervoicedbeau (kiwiana)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiana/pseuds/yourbuttervoicedbeau) for the late-night beta and absolutely outstanding cheerleading. You like kink stuff with our two boys? Run, don't walk, to their stunning [kink!verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1768552)

“God, David. Please. I need you to break me.” Patrick’s voice is choked where he speaks into the soft hollow of skin at the base of David’s ear. He’s shaking, a subdermal vibration that echoes up through David’s fingertips like the ghost of a feeling. Patrick’s shirt is somewhere behind the couch, in a heap on the floor, and a mottled blush floats across his chest. He’s got one hand on David’s upper thigh and the other wrapped around the back of his neck and he’s doing his best to loom above David, to press into his space and crowd him with the heat and weight and presence of his body. 

Patrick has been keyed up most of the day -- ever since David had come out of the shower, plucked the coupon from the top dresser drawer where he kept them stacked, and set one on the dresser with a little wink at Patrick. He’d shimmied his shoulders a little on the way out the door, and grinned to himself when he heard his husband trip over his own two feet on his way to the dresser before David had even hit the bottom of the staircase. He knows the words passing in front of Patrick’s face right now, and he flushes at the thought.

_**THIS CARD ENTITLES THE BEARER TO ONE (1) PRE-NEGOTIATED FACE FUCKING, GIVEN OR RECEIVED.** _

Only David’s crossed out the RECEIVED with the edge of his thumbnail, because he has no intention of doing anything but ripping Patrick apart at the seams.

So from the second they sit down after Patrick finishes the dinner dishes David has been devouring Patrick’s mouth, licking into the back of his throat, biting on his lip and sucking his tongue into his mouth. There’s an insistence in his hands and a desperation in the way his fingers fly across Patrick’s upper body; like they want everything, and more, and to stop it all, all at the same time.

David’s throat goes dry, and he feels his heart hammer in his chest so violently he’s afraid it might break a rib. He snakes one hand on top of the one Patrick has braced on David’s thigh and gently nudges him enough to catch his attention, pulling away long enough to meet Patrick’s eyes. Patrick's gaze is hot and desperate and wandering, unable to focus on a single point on David’s face, roaming in a circle from the line of his jaw the swoop his brow bone, a frantic draw over the line of his lips and the bridge of his nose.

“Patrick. I need you to  _ look  _ at me. Please.” Patrick takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes and nodding in a succinct, solid movement. Several seconds pass and when he opens his eyes again, he looks more focused, although there’s a glassiness there that wasn’t earlier, and it pokes at something deep inside David. 

“David. I  _ need  _ it.” And it’s the way his voice breaks on the ‘need’ that pushes David over the edge. David nods and presses his lips to Patrick's, full and wet and soft. He tries to kiss with a weighted patience he hopes will slip into Patrick's body like water, but he doesn't think it works; Patrick's exhale is still shaky and short, his hand digging into the skin above David's knee hard enough to hurt. 

"Chair," he manages to cough out, pushing Patrick off of him enough that the momentum carries Patrick backwards with a frustrated grunt. He slams into the chair across from the couch with a groan, his eyes closing as his head falls backwards. David watches the heave of his chest and tries to put the racing thoughts in his head in some semblance of order. His palms feel dry, his hands heavy at the wrist, and a cold fire licks up the back of his neck.

It's not the first time they’ve done this, Patrick offering himself and David taking. One of the first things they'd done was establish exactly what the limits were — what Patrick needed when he was like this, what the hardest edges were, what Patrick needed to say to make it all stop on a dime. They’ve played in a dozen different ways in their years together, and will delightedly spend the rest of their lives trying a million more, but they'd made the rule that when Patrick got like this, looked at David like the Second Coming and asked him to  _ break him _ , that meant one thing. And  _ only  _ one thing. It was the one time David had insisted on drawing boundary lines and leaving them in place. 

David would never be more loftily fond, more deeply possessive of his love, or more abjectly terrified that by breaking him he'd actually hurt him, than in the space of seconds between when Patrick’s head peels off the back of the chair and his lips form one perfect, ragged, “Please.”

David nods and shakes out his hands, standing and reaching behind him to pull his sweater up and over his head in a single movement. He folds it neatly and quickly, an economy of practiced movement that leaves him bare-chested and his hands free as he walks to the dresser and slides the bottom drawer open with his toes. He can feel Patrick watching him, the manic force of before distilled into a singular, burning intensity that threatens to push David over. He can feel something twisting inside of him, a corkscrew of desire and adrenaline and an edge of fear that operates like a drug inside his veins, screaming  _ more _ at the same time that it makes him afraid to look in the mirror over their dresser. 

He ducks down and grabs what he’s looking for — luckily, Patrick had been proven right time and again when he’d suggested a thematic-use organization schematic for their toy drawer — and shoves the drawer closed with a bang that echoes through the small space of their bedroom. David hears Patrick’s breath catch, and when he turns Patrick’s pupils are dark enough they jump out of his pale face. He’s rubbing his dick through the outside of his black joggers and he’s got his tongue caught between his teeth, the tiniest flash of pink amidst all the red and white and clear glaze of saliva that rings his ruined mouth. David walks towards him slowly, passing the rope between his hands reverently, like the rosary -- and even though he’s never been to Mass, David can appreciate the metaphorical significance of the release that comes with prayer and the release that comes with what he’s about to do to Patrick.

“Hands flat,” he says. He says it like he’s ordering a second round of bulgogi, or asking Patrick to lower the blinds on a particularly sunny afternoon in Rose Apothecary. Patrick rushes to comply, his knuckles white with the force he presses into the wooden arms of the chair. David clicks his tongue and runs a single finger around the edge of his palm, up and down the outline of his hand, as he steps in between Patrick’s thighs. “Relax, babe. You can’t — you’ll hurt your tendons, just —” he slips a finger under Patrick’s hand, tenting the flesh of his palm so that there’s a gap of air beneath it. He stays there for a second, so that the muscles of Patrick’s hand learn the difference, and then he’s wrapping a length of black silk rope around Patrick’s wrist, up the back of his hand and a stretch of his forearm. Every time he makes a pass, the frayed end of the other side of the rope drifts "over the tented crotch of Patrick's pajama pants and he moans, a low, animal sound."

When David has the ropes wound as tight as he wants them he wraps the excess rope across the back of the chair and repeats the process on the other side, tying the whole thing off with a square knot Patrick had spent one long, rainy afternoon teaching David how to perfect. David pulls at the rope to test the knot. Patrick shifts in the chair and David feels the tension in his biceps, can see the cording of the veins in his arms even as the rope covers the expanse of pale skin and honed muscle. 

“Perfect,” Patrick whispers, and once he says it, he can’t stop saying it, a litany of whispered “perfects” that David catches with a soft peppering of lips across his cheekbones, over his forehead, into the hair on the top of his head. David crouches down and slips steady fingers underneath the waistband of Patrick’s sweatpants, sliding them down his legs with a soft, graceful pull of fabric. With gentle fingers, he takes Patrick’s left ankle and guides it out of the soft elastic cuff of Patrick’s sweats, and then does the same with the other leg.

He takes a minute, here on his knees at Patrick’s feet, to look up at his husband, whose long eyelashes are trembling against the blushed curve of his cheek, his lip caught between his teeth as he stares at the ceiling and shifts, his leaking cock swaying slightly with the motion. He’s dripping already, a thin little trail of milky white that’s already lost in the curly auburn pubes curling damply against the base of Patrick’s dick.

He’s a vision, and David’s head swims with it until Patrick whines, a thin, reedy sound that plucks at a hidden cord behind David’s solar plexus and gets him back on his feet. And this time it’s David’s turn to palm at his dick, flick his wrist over the head, hissing at the drag of silky fabric, the heat of the damp spot that leaves the thinnest sheen on the skin of David’s palm. 

“Blindfold?” David has to clear his throat twice before he can get the word out without a crack in the middle, and the way Patrick starts to shake his head before the word is even out his mouth lets David know that he’s not going to last long like that. And David isn’t sure what’s gotten Patrick keyed up so badly, but he also trusts Patrick to stop, to explain if he needs to, and until then, Patrick trusts him to give him what he needs.

What David has always promised to give him. 

David nods and steps out of his pajama pants quickly, kicking them to the side and stepping close enough to Patrick that the tip of his dick bumps gently against Patrick’s chin, leaving a thin smear of precome across his flushed skin, and Patrick moans like he’s on fire. David takes his dick in his hand, squeezing slightly around the base, forcing a deep breath into his lungs and past the buzzing in his skin.

This will always be his favorite part, this final moment in the ‘before’ before he’s in the ‘during’ and the things he’s worried about, the concerns he has for Patrick’s pleasure, will shift and refocus. 

“Patrick?” It takes a second longer than it should for Patrick to respond, his breath loud and heavy as he breathes through his nose. When he finally looks at David, the glassiness that was there before has coalesced in the corners and he’s practically vibrating out of his skin. “Take a deep breath.”

Patrick does, but too quickly.

“Again. Slower. Three of them, don’t finish before I count to ten.” And whether it’s the authority in his voice or the slow, steady stroke of his hand over his own cock, something gets Patrick’s attention enough that he complies, taking three long, slow breaths, letting the last exhale extend just a little bit past David’s ten-second rule. And though he’s still looking at David with a flavor of desperation David can taste in his teeth, there’s a smile on his face now.

“Thank you,” he whispers and David just nods, dragging a thumb along his lower lip. 

“Always, baby,” he says back, his voice practically a growl. “Now open your mouth.”

And the little groan of gratitude sends any blood in David’s body not already in his dick straight there, a throb deep in his balls that makes his stomach muscles clench, makes his own eyes roll back just a little bit, and he squeezes his cock a little firmer. Patrick’s mouth falls open, and David pushes his hips just a little closer to Patrick’s face. “I want you to lick the slit Patrick, can you do that for me?”

Patrick’s tongue is already out of his mouth, dragging up and over the spot where David’s cock is freely leaking come, pressing slightly  _ into  _ the slit, lapping at David like he’s an ice-cream cone. The ‘fuck’ that presses out of David’s mouth starts in his toes.

David hears the wood of the chair creak and David pulls back a fraction of an inch on instinct, quickly enough that he sees Patrick sort of  _ follow him _ , tongue still out of his mouth, his upper body pressing into David’s space like he’s searching for David, like David’s cock is some kind of homing beacon for Patrick’s sense of calm. It’s the hottest thing David’s seen all night, on a night when he’s currently watching his husband writhing, tied to a chair, drool dripping down the side of his chin as he licks his lips  _ again  _ and practically grins at David, his mouth pulling slowly into a devilish expression that promises David he’s enjoying every fucking second of what’s currently happening. 

And that’s what does it, that little smile. What lets David know Patrick is enough back in his body, enough in this moment to stop this, if he needs to, although David knows in the same part of his heart that knows Stevie is his best friend and socked feet in public are  _ incorrect _ that Patrick isn’t going to stop this. The only thing that’s going to stop this is David shooting his load down the back of Patrick’s throat so hard he chokes on it and then thanks David with a searing kiss. 

David’s eyes close as his thumb finds the hinge of Patrick’s jaw and presses into it gently, feeling the subtle shifts of Patrick’s jawbone in the socket as he opens his mouth a fraction of an inch wider and  _ sucks,  _ pulling David into his mouth with enough force that it rocks David forward on his feet a little. 

He sighs, and chuckles a little, that nonsensical sound that’s nothing more than an overflow of manifested joy, and Patrick’s throat constricts around the head of David’s cock as he swallows and a shiver racks David’s entire body. The hand not cupping Patrick’s jaw settles at the back of his head, pads of his fingers digging into the soft skin of his neck as he wishes, not for the first time, that Patrick had just a little more hair he could wind his fingers into. 

But it’s a wish that will pass, as it always does, the first time he looks up tomorrow and sees the ghosts of the bruises he’s pressed into the back of Patrick’s neck. Patrick marks like a dream, and even with the paperwork signed and the promises forged in gold around their fingers, it’s those little marks that make the world  _ mine  _ sing through David’s bones. 

David’s able to thrust his cock deeper into Patrick’s throat three times before he finally gags, the sound jagged and wet, a gargling that forces the muscles of Patrick’s throat to clench even tighter around the head of David’s dick. David can feel himself leaking down the back of Patrick’s throat, can tell by the sleepy, heavy way Patrick’s eyelids are closing that he can taste it, can taste David getting him completely filthy from the inside out. He stops moving and presses his hand a little harder into Patrick’s head, feels Patrick buck slightly against the added force, and this is the moment that leaves David’s stomach suspended in midair, the moment that Patrick will either open for him or they’ll find another way to finish.

The sound Patrick makes is almost a sob, deep and low and full of something akin to gratitude, and David feels him relax. His throat, the breadth of his shoulders, even the roots of his hair seem to exhale in one single, unified moment, and he manages to pull David the last fraction of an inch deeper, until David’s balls are pressed to his chin and his nose is buried in the thick thatch of David’s black pubic hair. David can feel his breath on the exhale, warm and damp, and David finally lets out a deep groan of his own and starts, in earnest, to fuck Patrick’s mouth. 

David isn’t going to last long with the way Patrick’s got all of him down his throat, the way he’s hot around David, but it also doesn’t take much. Patrick looks up at David with eyelashes studded with the tears that are pouring out of the corners of his eyes as he continues to swallow, and suck, and gag around David’s dick. He’s whining, high in the back of his throat, a sound so faint David almost can’t hear it.

Only David  _ can  _ hear it, which means he can hear when it  _ stops _ , replaced with the short, panting breaths that mean Patrick’s about to come. He’s about to come with his hands tied to a chair and David’s dick in his throat, and as soon as David thinks the thought, it’s happening.

Patrick’s hips jerk, up and off the chair, but David doesn’t stop fucking into his mouth, and for a split second David’s momentum meets the opposite force of Patrick’s movements and threatens to send them both spilling to the ground. But before that has a chance to happen, Patrick’s ass slams back into the chair and David watches as thick ropes of come coat his lower belly, his chest, a few stray drops landing on the mottled pink of his nipples. Patrick’s dick bounces a bit with the force of David’s thrusting, which only serves to smear the come into Patrick’s skin. 

Patrick is shaking again, but he’s also sucking a little harder on David’s dick, pressing his tongue into the vein that runs along the underside, trying to rock his head slightly in time with David’s thrusts as he snaps his hips and uses Patrick’s mouth. And Patrick’s mouth feels so fucking delicious, and he looks so pretty all pink and panting and covered in come, that David closes his eyes and breathes through his nose and lets every sense in his body shut down except the tight, hot press of Patrick’s mouth around his cock, the drag of tongue and swirl of spit and slightest graze of teeth that makes David’s toes curl.

He comes with a repeated “fuck”, low and gravelly and ripped out of his chest with the force of his orgasm, and he tries to still his hips so he’s not  _ shoving  _ come down the column of Patrick’s throat but he can’t, can’t seem to stop the motion completely, the aftershocks of his orgasm ripping through him for longer than they have in a while. And Patrick just takes it all, swallows and swallows and starts to use his tongue to lap at David’s slowly softening cock.

David pulls out of Patrick’s mouth with a gentle little pop and immediately drops to his knees, his sweaty fingers making slow work of the knots that, really, Patrick taught him to tie too well for his own good. As soon as the ropes are off his wrist Patrick is leaning into David, wrapping his arms around David’s neck and pressing kisses into the hollow of his throat, the underside of his jaw, the soft stretch of skin right next to David’s ear. He snuffles a little bit on that one, and David smiles and shrugs his shoulder against the tickling sensation. 

“You are  _ perfect,  _ David,” is all Patrick says, and David shushes him gently, rubbing out the marks on his wrist, studying the skin around the red marks, the beds of Patricks nails, whether he’s got any pain in his forearms after the strain against the rope. 

And then, because it turns out Patrick is actually the perfect one, David scoops him up like a koala bear, wraps Patrick’s legs around his waist and his arms more tightly around his neck, and carries him to bed. And tomorrow, David will regret not putting them in the shower, and Patrick will regret not putting the toys back in their proper place, but that regret won’t come within a thousand miles of touching their memories of the moment. 


	4. somebody know me too well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is specifically dedicated to [youbuttervoicedbeau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiana/pseuds/yourbuttervoicedbeau), for being a recent but so, SO greatly appreciated whirlwind of positivity and support in my life, [TINN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_not_nothing/pseuds/this_is_not_nothing) for unfailingly telling me I'm not allowed to quit writing, and my beautiful girlfriend, who is a never ending font of all-caps cheerleading and indulgent headpats.
> 
> Heroes amongst mortals, all of them. 
> 
> And as always, it takes a village to bring anything legible to this account, and I wouldn't be anywhere near the writer I am without my forever friend and beta [storieswelove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storieswelove/pseuds/storieswelove).

There’s a sound that leather nine-tails make when they cut through the air, sharp and almost preemptively painful. It’s a sound that exists between the seconds, there almost as soon as it’s gone, and it’s Patrick’s third favorite sound in the entire world.

He hears it now, and his hands flex, wrists tensing against the nylon wrapped around them . He tries not to pull too hard — they weight tested the pressure points separately and together, so he knows, logically, that there’s no way he can pull the u-bolts out of the wall, but, well. Patrick’s already neck deep in home repair on the house, and the last thing he needs is to add  _ spackling drywall _ to the list. Besides, it had been his idea to convince David to forego the St. Andrews Cross, insisting they could save space and money by just getting a little DIY with it. 

But then the frayed ends of the individual straps cut into his upper shoulders, down across to just shy of his spine, like a spray of gravel, and all coherent thought leaves his head. Every muscle he’s conscious of relaxes, followed by ones he  _ wasn’t  _ actively aware of, and he feels something white and fuzzy and warm pressing in at the edges of his vision. He smiles, and it spreads across his face like a summer sunrise, slow and beautiful and edged in the faintest shade of pink.

It’s gorgeous, David would love it if he could see it, but David’s three feet behind him and waiting for him to speak. But to speak, Patrick has to remember how to use his tongue, his throat, the muscles along the side of his jaw. He opens his mouth and a low, groaning sound comes out, although in his head it’s supposed to sound like, ‘holy fuck that was amazing’. 

David chuckles, low and promising. “Try again, baby.” Five things. Patrick just needs to say five nice things about himself, and David will stop talking and go back to swinging those delicious strips of leather into the flushed skin of his back.

Patrick swallows, pressing the balls of both feet into the ground and keeping his weight squared between his hips. He’s got his arms above his head, held by nylon rope suspended from anchor points in the ceiling, legs spread so he looks like a giant ‘X’. The temptation to move, to arch his back and make his skin pucker, to drive more pressure into those still stinging points of pain, but he knows if he does that, David will stop, the clarifying pass of pain along his back will stop, and that will break him. So he holds still, clears his throat, and forces enough air out that his breath rises above a whisper.

“Kind...Practical…” he licks his lips and reminds himself that he does know more words than that. “Kind?”

“You said that last one twice. Try again. Three more, and you’ll earn the next round.”

Patrick sighs, his breath shaking as it leaves his chest, and presses his eyes together. It hurts, hurts so much more than the slice of leather into his back, the freckles of bruises he’ll find in the morning, the throb against his ribs as a leather paddle finds a greater surface area with a deeper impact. But he’ll never get there if he can’t think of three more words.

“Loyal.” 

“Good,” David says, and Patrick can hear the flick of a wrist, the rhythmic circling of straps through the air. “Another.”

“Funny.”

“Debatable,” David says, and they both laugh, Patrick’s high and breathy, David’s clear and bright. “But good. So, so good, Patrick.” David’s voice joins the rhythm of the flogger, loose and circular, almost sing-songy as he coaxes Patrick into saying kind things about himself. It’s absolute torture. “One more for me, yeah? You can do one more.”

Patrick licks his lips and tries to focus on the way his mouth makes shapes, tries to wrack his brain for another kind thing to say about himself, but the only thing in front of him, around him, pressing in on all his senses, is white. White, and fuzz, and the slight rushing in the back of his ears that’s keeping time with the  _ woosh  _ of thin leather through the air. And that white feels so good, so calm and empty, everything his brain usually isn’t, especially when David is around.

As though the thought summons him closer, the next thing he feels is David behind him, hands so low on his hips they’re practically bracing his outer thighs, and the welts on Patrick’s back are fresh enough that even this much, just the specter of David’s body pressed against them, pushes a small moan out from his lower belly.

When he feels David’s breath across the back of his neck, he actually screams, just a little, half from surprise and half because he’s so hard against the simple grey cotton of his boxer-briefs that they’ve gone from snowcloud to slate, and if he doesn’t come soon, he might pass out. But he can’t come until David says, and David won’t say until Patrick speaks.

David’s teeth catch his earlobe, bite down gently, tug Patrick gently but forcefully back out of the white space and into his body. His body that’s on fire from all directions, inside out and turning him upside down so fast he can’t think. Stretching his arms above his head puts a gentle ache in the meat of his triceps, his legs spread focuses enough gravity into his pelvis that he can feel it across his lower back. David’s fingers dig into the meat of Patrick’s thighs and his legs buckle for a split second, enough that the wrists around his rope tug, and tighten, pulling deliciously at his slowly fatiguing muscles. When he speaks, it’s so low it almost doesn’t seem like sound as much as it does a vibration in Patrick’s bones. Like he’s got David’s voice burned into the marrow. 

“One more, Patrick fucking Brewer, or I’m going to bed and leaving you here, just like this,” David tugs slightly on the rope, pulling Patrick‘s arms so there’s no more slack, twisting his shoulders a little in a way that hurts, but isn’t necessarily painful. He whimpers, but even as he does so, his hips press backwards, seeking some kind of friction between his ass and David’s hips. But, of course, this isn’t the first time DAvid’s run this rodeo, and he manages to position his body in such a way that he can touch Patrick, but Patrick can’t touch him. “Ah ah ah, excuse you,” he says and swats Patrick’s ass with the flat of his hand.

“David,” Patrick whines, which earns him another swat.

“Don’t ‘David’ me. You’ve still got your nine from the store today, and it’s getting late enough I’m going to have to start cutting steps off my skincare routine if I still want eight hours.” It’s a hollow threat and they both know it, but Patrick had momentarily forgotten about the nine from the store, so he presses his lips together, forces every ounce of concentration he has not currently living under the pads of David’s fingers, and spits out a fifth word:

“Brave.”

It’s barely more than a whisper and it’s like a storm breaks within the room, a wave crashing on the shore between them. Patrick can practically feel David’s boyd relax behind him, as he’s allowed to do the thing he’s been wanting to do as badly as Patrick has, what he’s been working for since the minutes they stepped inside the bedroom door and David had snapped his fingers twice, their agreed upon non-verbal cue for: ‘shirt off, face the wall, arms above your head’. And even knowing it was coming, even having spent all day anticipating it with the kind of nervous excitement that tasted like late-season hockey and pre-season baseball, it still managed to send a bone-deep thrill through his body when David had cinched the nylon ropes tightly around his forearms. 

And just like that, David is gone, and Patrick barely has any time to process his absence before he hears the sound again, gritting his teeth as three more lashes fall in quick succession, one cutting a left to right diagonal, the second a mirrored stroke going from right to left, and the third landed with almost textbook precision right down his spine. That last one feels like diamonds, crashing into the tender places between his vertebrae, and Patrick almost comes on impact. 

He grits his teeth and breathes through his nose, and hears David practically chanting behind him, that low, rhythmic way of speaking back again, lulling Patrick into that delicious white space as he says over and over again: “good job, baby, you’re did so good, you  _ are  _ so good, so fucking amazing, look at you, Jesus Christ, Patrick, look at you my good boy,” until Patrick is drowning in it. 

Patrick lets his head fall between his arms, feels the stretch along the back of his neck and the tops of his shoulders, and he doesn’t move when David steps up behind him, so much closer because of the paddle’s shorter reach. There’s an inhale David makes when he swings, a sharp little catch of air between his teeth, and Patrick focuses on it, rather than on the dull impact across his lower back, his left and right ribs, the place where his neck and shoulders bleed into the column of his spine. It’s a different kind of hurt, bassy and almost mellow after the shrill pain of the flogger. 

David pauses after the first four, and Patrick can hear him breathing heavily. He forgets, sometimes, how much this takes it out of David, too, the physicality it takes to beat another human being, especially one who wants it as badly as Patrick does, who can’t help dragging it out, against all his better angels. 

“Do you get it, now?”

Patrick jumps a little, when David speaks. He’s still drawing in big breaths, and the word sounds rough as it leaves his throat. Patrick nods, but knows David won’t proceed until he says something.

“I get it, David.”

“Do you?” There’s something harsh in his voice, almost angry, and Patrick shudders with something that isn’t sexual, a flip in his stomach that rearranges the puzzle pieces inside his brain with a new truth. It means something to David that Patrick understands how important it is that he’s able to accept the truth about himself. 

It had started as almost all arguments between them did: as a tease that turned into a truth. They’d been closing down the store on Monday, after a rowdy pass-through by the local craft circuit ladies, who’d taken every opportunity to pinch Patrick’s cheeks and whisper loudly about his ‘great tushie.’ After they’d left, David had taken a moment of privacy to push Patrick up against the register and make his own tushie-fondness known. 

“You can deny and divert all you want to, the proof is in the pudding — people love you.”

“ _ You _ love me. That makes you biased.” Patrick pressed a kiss to David’s temple as he pushed against his hips, backing David up just enough that there was space to slip past him. “Now enough being ridiculous, let’s get lunch.”

“I’m going to keep doing it until you stop, you know.” 

“Doing what?”

“Complimenting you. Saying nice things. I’m not the only one that needs to hear them.” 

“I hear them.” And he’s not sure where the defensiveness in his voice comes from, but there’s no denying it’s there. 

“No, you don’t. I say them, and you deny them. Or deflect them. Or make a joke about them.” Patrick’s not sure when their teasing had taken on a sharper edge than either of them had meant it to. 

“David, stop being ridiculous.”

“I’ll stop being ridiculous when you just  _ say I’m right _ .” He nodded his head aggressively at Patrick, a move that reminded Patrick a little of an angry swan. Not that he’d ever tell David that.

“I’ll say you’re right,  _ when you’re right _ .” Patrick circled his hands through the air in front of him, like he couldn’t make the very clear idea any clearer. Which, to be honest. He couldn’t. “This is not an issue.”

“Oh, and you’re making all this decisions about our issues now, Anna Wintour?”   


“Please,” Patrick scoffed. “You know I’m more of an Alexandra Shulman.” David’s mouth dropped open, and whether it was because he disagreed or because he was surprised Patrick made the reference to begin with, Patrick didn’t give him the chance to fire back. “Besides, what does it matter. This is a ridiculous argument.”

“You know, that’s the third time in this conversation that you’ve said that, and I don’t love it.” His voice went cold at the edges, and when Patrick looked at him, his face was almost blank, one eyebrow lifted. 

Patrick exhaled heavily, his shoulders sinking. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t — it’s just been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean it.”

“Okay,” David shrugged a single shoulder, crossing his arms across his chest. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Oh, don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“The thing where you pretend we’re fine, only we’re really not fine but you won’t ever tell me we’re not fine, you just wait for something else to piss you off and you blow up at  _ that  _ thing instead?” 

The words tumbled out of Patrick’s mouth, before he realized he'd kicked open the door on a conversation that could just have easily been closed. 

“I  _ am  _ fine,” David said, his voice barely above the whisper, and he’d smiled, but it looked more like baring his teeth. And then, almost instantly, his shoulders had unwound and his hands dropped. His smile softened, and he crossed to where Patrick was leaning in the doorway between the back room and the register. He reached out and ruffled Patrick’s hair, which Patrick bravely endured, and then David kissed him softly on the corner of his mouth. 

For every bit that David had relaxed, Patrick began to tense. He’d felt it in the pads of his fingers as they’d locked up for the night, creeping up the back of his neck as they’d made dinner, into the spaces between his ribs as they’d gotten ready for bed and kissed each other good night, David curled in on himself while Patrick wrapped around him, placing soft kisses on the bumps of David’s spine. Patrick can’t name it, but he can feel it, a slow sinking feeling that things that day hadn’t just been  _ weird.  _ They’d been left unresolved.

And then this morning, Patrick had realized why. 

David hadn’t even bothered leaving it on the dresser. When Patrick went upstairs to get ready for work, David followed him like a puppy rather than finishing his morning rounds on the store’s social media. Patrick headed into the shower with a glance over his shoulder, and when he’d come out, David was reclining on the bed, flipping through the oversized Frida Kahlo book Patrick had gotten him on their honeymoon trip to Casa Azul. He’d been tapping the edge of his thigh with a piece of thick black cardstock, and for the quickest second Patrick felt a bubbling in his stomach. 

Until he remembered which coupons David had left, and then he’d known.

Patrick cinched the knot of the towel a little tighter around his hips and ran a hand through his wet hair, a move that may or may not have usually punched this little noise out of David, the opposite of a gasp. But that morning, it was like David hadn't even been in the room. He’d just sat there, watching Patrick expectantly, his eyes wide and falsely innocent, a look Patrick knew for a fact he’d stolen from Stevie. Patrick sighed, and took the card from David, letting his hand fall limply to his side. David sprung off the bed and stepped forward to kiss Patrick on his still-flushed cheek. 

“Today is going to be fun,” he’d said, out the door before Patrick could reply. 

Patrick tossed the card on the dresser, a drop of water from his hair threatening to smear the silver ink:

**_If You Can’t Say Something Nice: This card entitles the bearer to one (1) session of endured praise, fondness, kindness, and coming, given or received._ **

Only, that’s not  _ all  _ it says. David had snagged one of the bright pink post-its from Patrick’s desk and added an addendum:  _ Deflect a compliment, deny the praise, and I’m bringing out the heavy leather. One lick per. If you want out, you know what to say to make it stop. Or not say. I love you. XO _

A warm weight had settled in Patrick’s stomach, his skin hot. He’d pulled an undershirt out of the dresser and looked at himself in the mirror before heading to the closet. “You got this, Brewer,” he’d said quietly.

And he had. Until almost lunch time, when a string of slightly befuddled but well-intentioned husbands had wandered in while their wives met for some combined stair workout class in Elmdale. 

Patrick had done such a good job showing them around, and answering their questions, and they’d all clearly look so relieved to ask their questions of someone who’s aesthetic was more 

‘wings and beer’ than ‘Diane Von Furstenberg via 2015’. And it had been so easy, at first, to just say thank you. But then he’d slipped into old habits and made a joke when one of the men told him he has a good sales pitch, deflected when another tries to tell him that he wants to buy whatever cologne Patrick was wearing because it smelled “like a campfire”, and suddenly, the words “thank you” felt clunky in his mouth and, while the Apothecary was in the black for the day and Patrick’s ass was going to be firmly in the red that night. 

“But, none of those compliments were from you!”

“That’s not what the note said. It said  _ any  _ compliment, and I counted at least four while all those guys were here.”

Patrick spluttered, and David grinned. “You really need to learn to read the fine print, Patrick.”

Of course, that threw Patrick off entirely, so that the quick stop-in by two of the wives, a grandmother whose acne-prone grandson spent the whole time looking like he wanted to melt into the floor, and Jocelyn’s bimonthly stock up of massage lotions — all add more hasmarks to the nights tally. By the time they’re ready to go home, Patrick’s already racked up almost a dozen licks.

“See, I told you,” David had said, ever the older sibling, as they’d slipped into the car on the way home that night. “You just can’t let nice things about you exist in the world. You’ve always got to pop the balloon.”

Patrick shrugs and stares at the palms of his hands. He just doesn’t see why it matters — Patrick's never lacked for people in his life capable of telling him all the amazing things about him. He's lucky that way, that he grew up in a household, a family, a community where being vocally appreciated was a norm. But what's he going to say? 'You're right, David. I am amazing. I'm the best small-business numbers guy this side of Victoria Falls?' His mother would string him up by this thumbs from a hundred miles away. Besides, David needs to hear them because he _ needs _ to hear them. David just  _ wants _ Patrick to hear them so he has the joy of saying them. Those are different things, but Patrick can’t quite figure out how to explain the difference to David.

He hadn’t known in the car, or over dinner, or through the end of the bottle of wine and up the stairs into the bedroom. He hadn’t known through the snaps, or the first lick, or the fifth, and even now his mind swam with a hundred permutations that threatened to pull him out of that delicious, warm blanket dulling his senses everywhere but the space above his fourth rib, the welt across his shoulder, the tiny bruises peppering his spine like freckles.

“What do you get?” David’s voice is quiet, so still and clear that it cuts through the room like glass and embeds itself underneath Patrick’s Adam’s apple. He feels tears spring up along his lower lash line.

“David,” he says, his voice practically a sob, his gut twisting. David just snaps the paddle through the air beside him, bringing it down on his own thigh with a quiet grunt, and Patrick’s teeth snap shut. David rarely shifts into this kind of headspace when they play, no matter how badly Patrick begs him to be hurt, and the fact that he’s there now makes a shiver spike up Patrick’s neck. 

“What. Do. You. Get.” David makes each word it’s own sentence and Patrick feels the first tear slip down his cheek, and it almost hurts, the cool pass down the side of his cheek, off the point of his chin. He presses his eyes together and chokes back a sob as two more tears follow the first. 

“I get...I get that you need me to hear nice things.” He knows he’s speaking, knows his brain has put a series of words together in an order David will understand, but nothing makes sense by the time his ears catch up to hearing.

“And?” Patrick’s never heard a voice that sounds like David’s does right now, full of tenderness, and rage, and so much care and concern for Patrick it wiggles into all the cracks of Patrick’s soul, fills them with something flowing and hot and incandescent. 

“And believe them. You need me to believe them.”

“Because?”

“Because...because you think they’re true.”

A pinch on his hip, sharp and viscous and right on top of an already forming leather burn. He yelps and tries to twist away. “Wrong answer, Patrick.”

Patrick almost says it then, his safeword. He feels it, right on the tip of his tongue, curving along the outlines of his teeth, but he swallows it back and says the thing he knows David needs to hear. Knows, really, that some part of himself he hasn’t become aware of yet needs to hear, because David has always done that, has always seen into corners of Patrick that he hasn’t seen himself yet. 

Everyone always thinks that Patrick was the one who grounded David so he could fly, but no one sees the way David shines a light on all of Patrick’s shadows, brings him from closets he couldn’t even see built around himself into an entirely new world. Dorothy into Oz. 

“Because they  _ are  _ true.” 

He hears the paddle hit the floor a split second before he feels David’s hands over his, steady fingers untying the knots and gently lowering Patrick’s shoulder, rolling his arm over his head and slowly through the joint’s range of motion before letting it fall to Patrick’s side and doing the same on the other side. As soon as both arms are free, David’s hands land on Patrick’s hips and, with a tentative gentleness, he spins Patrick in his arms. 

David takes Patrick’s hands in his, turns them over, runs his fingers around his wrists and up the back of his hands, checking for bruising, marking, blood flow. It’s something he does every time they use restraints, but this time, he’s not looking at Patrick. He’s not laughing, or smiling, or doing all the things he normally does by the time they get to this part of the night, to get Patrick back to himself and his body and his breath. 

“David,” Patrick says, and David’s head starts to shake.

“Shut up,” he says, his voice broken. Not cracking, not breaking. Broken into pieces Patrick can’t account for. “Shut up you beautiful perfect  _ stubborn  _ man and let me do this.”

And before Patrick can tease him, can push the buttons he relies on to bring David back to himself and ask him exactly what ‘this’ entails, David drops to his knees and wrenches Patrick’s boxers down his thighs so forcefully Patrick hears the fabric rip. Apparently the $7 stitching-and-cotton combination couldn’t hold up to the force of David Rose.

David swallows him down the back of his throat without prelude, gagging around Patrick with a low sucking sound that’s so visceral Patrick can’t help but dig his hand into David’s hair, groaning and thrusting his hips against David’s face, grinding his balls into David’s chin as he comes. David swallows and Patrick sees stars behind his eyes as another wave of orgasm pushes him back towards the white fuzzy blankness. 

The hand he has in David’s hair loosens, and David pulls off with popping sound, Patrick’s erection still flagging, and sinks back on his heels, scoots back until his back is against the end of the bed, wipes his hand across the back of his mouth and pulls his knees up so high he hides his face behind him. 

Patrick’s stomach sinks, pushing the euphoria he’s feeling post-orgasm into something else, into a sort of clawing tenderness, a need to pull David back to a place where he feels as good as he deserves to. 

Without thinking, Patrick falls to his knees and crawls towards David, sits next to him on the floor and pulls him sideways until he’s got one arm around David’s shoulder and the other splayed over David’s heart. It’s racing, and Patrick can see by the line of David’s jaw that he’s clenching his teeth. His hands are balled into fists and there’s a heat radiating off his body.

Patrick catches David’s eye and holds his gaze. “David?”

“Yep.” David’s answer is clipped. So Patrick tries again, dropping his hands to David’s and slowly peeling his fingers away from his palms, rubbing gentle circles across the back of his hands, up into his wrists and forearms. He stops when he hits a knot, keeps going until he can tell that at least David’s body is starting to relax, even if his mind isn’t. 

“Can you sit on the bed for me?”

David rolls his eyes. “I’m dropping, I’m not a child.”

Patrick chuckles, and the sound seems to buoy something between them, something small and shining. “There he is, folks. My husband. David Rose.”

Patrick stands and pulls David to his feet, enough that he’s able to sit back  _ on  _ the bed this time, scooting back until his back’s against the headboard. David lets his head fall against the headboard with a heavy thunk, closes his eyes and keeps them closed as Patrick crosses their room, rummages through the top dresser drawer, comes back with a small tube of Neosporin with lidocaine. 

He keeps them closed as Patrick sinks to the mattress beside him, as Patrick presses the tube into his hand, wraps David’s fingers around the thin plastic. 

“Please?” Patrick asks, his hands constantly moving across David’s skin, gentle and steady and unceasing. “You’re the only one who can reach that bruise I already know is forming right over my kidney.”

David winces. “Sorry about that. Not my best placement.”

“No no no no,” Patrick shifts so he’s sitting on his knees in front of David, puts a hand to either side of David’s face and forces him to meet Patrick’s gaze. “We don’t do that, remember? We don’t apologize for the things that happen while we’re...not like that. Okay? You didn’t do a single thing tonight that wasn’t absolutely perfect.”

“I made you cry.”

“Sometimes crying is good,” Patrick says, and David laughs, a short little bark, sniffling and running a hand across his face.

“You’re only saying that because I’m crying.”

“Maybe. But also because it’s true, and I’m not the only one who needs to hear true things.” He kisses David’s forehead, the peak of each eyebrow, the tip of his nose. “Now, I was serious about the Neosporin. I can’t do it myself.”

David nods and presses up to kiss Patrick, long and slow, licking into the back of Patrick’s mouth like he’s never had the chance to do it before. When they finally pull apart, David spins his finger through the air and Patrick follows the motion, laying down on his stomach and sighing contentedly when David’s weight settles across the backs of his thighs, his fingers dabbing cream gently onto Patrick’s bruises, over the tiny cuts the thinner flogger straps sometimes leave. 

“I love you, you know,” David says softly.

“I know. I love you, too.”

“There...there aren’t words…” David trails off, his voice choked, and Patrick reaches a hand down to his side and finds David’s knee where it braces his thigh. He squeezes once, gently, and hears the shake in David’s exhale.

“Those were five really good ones you just had.”

“Now who’s praising who?”

“It’s after midnight, David. Terms of the coupon have  _ officially  _ expired. It’s in the fine print.”

And it should hurt more than it does, the way David’s fingers dig in under Patrick’s ribs, searching for his ticklish spots, but it doesn’t. It feels warm, familiar, like feeling the sun through a car window.

It feels like love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Sondheim's ["Being Alive"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eBBPKedba5o) which you should take eight minutes to watch, even if you've already seen it, because. Well. You should just always take a pause to watch "Being Alive".


End file.
